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About Me

All too often we forget about the presence of magic in our lives, making our every day heavier than it needs to be. So as much for you as for myself, this blog is meant to remind us that magic, in all shapes and sizes, is very much alive--and that sometimes all we have to do is just tweak our vision a bit to recognize it.

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

You tried. This year of 2014, you really tried. And yet
still, not everything turned out the way you hoped it would. You were more
conscious. You were more loving. You were even more careful and caring and
creative. But still, you tripped. You fumbled. Sometimes you even fell flat on
your face. And you hurt. Yourself and others. You criticized. Yourself and
others. You blamed. Yourself. And others.

And why?

For different reasons.

But what if you were to distill each reason down to its essence?

You suffered because you are human. And humans are never any
other perfect, than perfectly imperfect.

You are beautiful because of all your imperfections.

And every little bit of suffering you have endured is all
part of the journey, all part of the plan, all part of being human.

With one caveat though, one aspect that cannot be overlooked
without dire consequences for your entire life.

Lean in, listen closely . . .

You must learn to forgive.

And to forgive first --- your Self.

Forgive yourself for it all. Not some parts, just that, or
this. All of it. Every last bit.

Because whatever happened this year or in years past, today
is the day to forgive and tomorrow is the day to start afresh. Now is the time
to accept that you are human, and that nothing can ever be more beautiful than each
our own beautifully human imperfections.

Yes, even those.

***

Through suffering, we encounter growth.

Through suffering, we learn the big lessons.

Through suffering, the light finally has a way to find our
deepest Selves.

From the caterpillar’s suffering to become the butterfly, to
the single seed painfully stretching up through the earth to become the flower
it was born to be, growth is pain
transformed into beauty.

From the suffering of abandonment or abuse, to the pains endured
by those we love and care about, the real lessons
of life are learned through the struggles of the heart.

From the trials of unemployment or divorce, to the suffering
of illness or loss, wounds are merely
opportunities to let in more light.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

He had always been a favorite author of mine so when I
opened the finely wrapped gift on Christmas morning, my hand rushed up to cover
my mouth. How did I not know he had written a new book? How did the gift giver
beat me to it? I could hardly wait to be alone, to dive into this new world, to
watch his words come alive, to soar with his imagination. You see, it was a
particularly difficult Christmas for me. I was newly divorced, back home with
my parents, and honestly, I was sad. Sad that my life wasn’t at all like I
hoped it would be. But … as I would soon find out, my imagination was exactly
what my spirit needed. And a new read from a favorite author? Well, that part
at least, was even better than I hoped.

I tucked my legs up under myself for so long, they ached. I
laughed out loud. I filled my eyes with tears. And my body, well, I’m pretty
sure it lost some of its heavy emotion. And all because of one man’s gift of
imagination. Thank you, dear author, I said to his picture on the back
cover when I was finished reading, thank you for bringing a smile to my sad
heart. And universe, if you are listening, I’d like to thank him one day in
person, to tell him what a gift he has been to me this Christmas.

And just like that, I got on with the rest of Christmas.

Until the phone rang.

It was a friend of mine. She wanted to meet me for lunch the
next day. At a bookstore in an out-of-the-way-town. I agreed. And hung up with
yet another smile.

The next day, in a town about forty minutes away, I was
browsing through books, waiting for our name to be called for an open table. I
was wandering, probably daydreaming, when I looked up and saw who I thought was
the author I had just read the day before, the author who had transformed my
Christmas. I blink-stared. And blinked some more. He doesn’t live here. It’s
the day after Christmas. He’d never be here … would he? I went to the shelf
where his books lived to double check what I was seeing, the face on the back
cover with this face I was seeing in person. I crept around the corner, peering
as discretely as I could. It was him. It was definitely him. My heart picked up
its pace. I knew exactly what I had to do.

“Excuse me, but are you Nick Bantock?”

He turned to face me with a sly smile, “I am.”

I’m sure I swallowed a big gulp of air, “I thought so. Well,
there’s something you need to know.” And I proceeded to tell him how he saved
my Christmas, how his words brought wings to an otherwise heavy heart. I
thanked him again and again and again.

And do you know what he told me?

That earlier that day he felt a strange urge to pull off the
freeway, that amidst protests from everyone else in the car, he just knew he
had to stop in at the out-of-the-way bookstore in the out-of-the-way town but
he didn’t know why.

And then he said, that lately, the past few months anyway,
he had been doubting his worth as an author, that he wondered if anyone ever
read him anymore and if he should just stop writing all together. He looked at
me, talked to me, his eyes begging for answers he just couldn’t find himself.

“No, no, no!” I said. “Please keep writing. I know I am not
the only one who needs your imagination. If you buoyed me, a heavy-hearted new
divorcee on Christmas, I can’t possibly be the only one.” I searched his eyes.
Was I reaching him? So then I said, “You know something Mr. Nick Bantock
in the out-of-the-way-bookstore on the day after Christmas? I’m a reminder from
the universe to keep writing because what you do . . . is magic. And we all need
magic in this world, now maybe more than ever.”

And I swear to you, right then, his eyes caught fire.

As did mine. And maybe not just my eyes. Yes, I am sure my
heart did, too.

*
* *

Ask for your heart’s desires, for the feelings, the
connections, the answers you need. Ask because you know, somewhere deep inside,
that exactly what you need is out there, waiting for you. For you see, Nick
Bantock isn’t the only magic one. I happen to know that you are, too. You just
need to believe it, for yourself, and especially this week, today . . . this
Christmas.

Until suddenly the light floods in to wake you from your
deadly slumber.

***

Maybe it’s a woman and the way she shines.

Maybe it’s a man and the way he rides—the waves of life.

Maybe that light came by way of a picture

Or a lyric

Or a lone
line in a very special book.

But that light has found you.

It has illuminated your heart’s path

Your soul’s longing

Your ache to fly fresh and new and free.

And yet you pretend you are stuck.

You show me your shackles.

You plead with me to see why change won’t work

Why it
can’t be

Why your
life is different

Different
as different can ever be.

There isn’t enough money, you say.

There isn’t an easy way.

There isn’t time

Or space

Or a right
way.

And it will hurt.

I just know it's going to hurt!

Maybe, but . . .

Stuck hurts most of all

For it deadens

your

Soul.

***

You wake up to tendrils of sleep dusting your body, and like
a freshly baked pie, you emerge from your warm encased slumber to embrace the
gifts of your new day. You smile when you think about the choices ahead because
you’ve given yourself the time. The time to choose. The time to enjoy. The time
to be conscious that you have the power to paint your morning, your day, your
Life . . . any color you dream.

You pick the orange socks because they remind you of your
favorite sherbet.

You drink the new tea to surprise your tongue. (And it
works!)

You wear your hair differently because it’s fun.

And you give yourself a wink and a smile. (And mean it!)

You drive a new way to work and admire the scenery. You
remind yourself that it is exhilarating to see with fresh eyes and that in
order to breathe in fresh ideas you must expose yourself to new things, new
people, new ways of doing . . . and thinking about . . . the same old everyday routines.

You shock yourself. You break out of your norm. You rip off
that boring old button down to reveal the true Superhero beneath. You break
your own rules. You leap before the net appears. You rise up and wave your flag
to show the other stuckies the way.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

The table is heavily worn, its top littered with spots of
peeling varnish, with stains from permanent pens and greasy foods. There are
rivets from pencils and dents from toys and when she runs her fingers across
its rough surface, a feeling of nostalgia overcomes her. She loves the table.
No matter now ugly some might see it, she will always see its beauty.

It’s Christmas time. And every year this same woman invites
her family to help her with a new jigsaw puzzle. This year it is the biggest one yet
with the smallest pieces yet. And she can hardly wait to begin. She pours the
pieces from the clear plastic bag and watches as they tumble onto the table.
Some fall right side up. Others fall face down. She lets her fingers spread
them out like sand beside the sea, the little pieces sneaking up between her
fingers and tickling her just so. She smiles to herself because she might just
love this part most of all. It’s when she gets to transform her table into a
beauty the rest of the world can see.

“Puzzle’s here! Come play with me!”

When the first family member arrives, he looks at the pieces
in astonishment. “Are you kidding me? How many pieces are there? Seriously? A
million? There’s no way we can get that done before Christmas. Count me out.”
And he turns and walks away.

When the second family member hears the call, she yells from
her bedroom, “Nothing could get me to sit at that nasty table and nothing could
ever make it un-nasty to me!”

“A million pieces?” says her husband.“I didn’t even
know they made such a puzzle. Do you really have the time? I know I don’t. I’ve
got other more important things to do.”

Finally the littlest family member arrives, her eyes wide
with wonder, her smile lighting up the room. “A million pieces is a lot, isn’t
it, Mama?”

“It is.”

“Who does a puzzle with a million pieces?”

“Dreamers do. A million pieces is a dreamer’s puzzle.”

“Are you a dreamer then, Mama?”

“I am.”

“And Mama? Am I a dreamer then, too?

“If you choose to be, darling, then you are.”

“And Mama?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Do dreamers finish puzzles or do they just dream all day
long?”

“Dreamers are the only ones who finish any puzzles at all,
my dear,” she says with a twinkle in her eye, “because dreamers are the only
ones who know that one small act after another changes everything.”

“Even an ugly table?"

“Even an ugly table.”

***

Not everyone sees the beauty in the midst of the ugly.

Not everyone is willing to spend the time creating beauty,
either.

Not everyone believes such tasks can even be accomplished.

But maybe they would if they realized that every picture is made
up of a million different tiny pieces.

Pieces that matter.

Each one as much as the other.

No matter how big or small, no matter how wide or far, if
our pieces are placed with kindness, with caring, with an effort to contribute
to the beauty of the world, we are making a difference.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

I went in to buy yogurt. That was all. But then I saw the
scarf. It was green and blue and embroidered with colorful floral stitching. I
didn’t need it. But I did need to touch it, to feel if the colors were as
lovely as they looked. So I stood there, admiring it, smiling all to myself when
another woman approached the same scarves. Her long hair was white. Her lips
were pink. And her smile warmed every inch around her.

“Did you
see they are 25% off?” I said.

“I didn’t!”
she said with a bit of an accent. “Thank you for telling me. I have been
admiring this blue one for a while now.”

“That’s the
one I would’ve chosen for you, too. It’s the perfect color for you, especially
with your white hair.”

Our
conversation continued … until at last I could hold my question no longer.

“I hear you
have a bit of an accent. May I ask where you are from?”

“Oh yes,
I’m from Germany,” she said with a smile.

“I thought
you might be,” I said, “I used to live in Denmark and visited Germany a lot.”

“Yes? Well,
I grew up in Berlin. Surely you know Berlin?”

“I do! I
was there when the Wall came down.”

“What? You
were?”

“Yes…” I
hesitated as I remembered. “I can tell you what happened…”

“Tell me.
Please tell me,” she said as we stood in the grocery store, our hands reveling
in the beautiful colorful fabric of our chosen scarves. “Tell me what happened
in Berlin.”

***

I stood in front of a big hole in the Wall on the Western
side contemplating many things as I looked through into no man’s land and to
the Eastern wall beyond. The towers with the armed watchmen and their German
Shepherds … the thin wires identifying what I guessed to be land mines … the white crosses showing
those who tried to escape and failed, and one cross identifying an eighteen
year old boy who had tried to escape just days before the Wall came down. I was
cold. In every sense of the word. I was touched. I was vulnerable. And for a
few moments I was alone with my thoughts.

A West German police officer with a machine gun approached
me. I stepped back to let him pass. It was clear that he was patrolling to make
sure no one from the Western side would try to enter into no man’s land. And
then something happened that I will never forget. Just as he reached the hole
in the Wall on the Western side, an East German police officer reached the same
hole, on his side, on the edge of no man's land. Both held machine guns. Both were German. Both looked
through the Wall that separated them with wide-eyed shock.

And then one man, I can’t remember which, stretched out his
arm to shake hands.

And all those years of being strangers, of being sometimes
even enemies, fell away. Suddenly they were just two human beings letting their hearts,
connect.

***

Twenty-five years later, Elsa and I found tears in our
eyes—two strangers

in a grocery store touched by the beauty of connection …
theirs … and ours.